


0.007

by Birdgirl



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Little!Bond, M/M, Macro/Micro, Naked!Bond, Promise young padwan I do in time sense everything will make
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdgirl/pseuds/Birdgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bond is shrunk, Q is in pajamas, Bond gets naked and Q only wishes he was...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One Where James Bond Gets Shrunk

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for you-know-who, this one for his Bond/Q obsession. Man, this was fun to write!

Q adjusted the volume dials on his headset frantically, trying to hear the agent’s voice on the other end, trying to get a hold of him, and it just wasn’t working.

It had been a routine operation as far as most things went, or at least it had started out that way. 007 had been sent to intercept a messenger with information on a notorious smuggling group that had been steadily climbing in the London blackmarket hierarchy for some time now. They’d at one point seen what looked like a ray of green light, but it had been a full five minutes since Bond had replied, and it wasn’t just M that was worried.

Field agent Moneypenny had lost track of Bond as well, though this time at least it wasn’t from shooting him off a train. In a way, it was worse, not knowing anything- he could be hurt, most certainly. Or, he could be completely fine, information in hand. Or… he could be dead.

Q wasn’t sure what to do if that was the case- after all, one can resurrect themselves only so many times. And no one wanted to think about the day that might inevitably come. The day that he never came back.

He adjusted his monitors again, typing sporadically every code he knew by heart, activating any security camera or MI6 bug in the area and flipping through each screen. His voice might have been shaking, but if anyone would have asked it was only for the urgency of the moment.

“007… 007 do you read? 007 please respond…”

A cobbled street he hadn’t looked twice at suddenly caught his eye, made of marble-white rocks which didn’t normally line a street, but made it much easier to see the object on the pavement. Bond’s Walther PPK stood out against the white stone, obviously cracked. The biometric lights were shut off, and the transmitter, nowhere to be found. Probably broken as well.

Q felt his chest start to seize, feeling himself start to panic. Where was Bond? Why was he without his gun? What had happened…?

Maybe it was his desperation or his heightened sensitivity, but something caught Q’s eye with a second look at the gun. Yes, it by itself was broken, surely- probably into a dozen pieces. But there was something else small, very small… moving by the gun and… waving?

Q hit a few keys to zoom in and let out a sigh of relief, which fizzled into a silent chuckle. “Oh, Jamie, what’ve you done to yourself?”


	2. The One Where Grown Ass Agents Play No Nose

Unsurprisingly, MI6 wasn’t prepared to deal with this type of situation. They had dealt with missing agents, wounded agents, dead agents, agents who had gone crazy under the stress of the job, rogue agents turned supercriminals- but this? This was a completely different story.

The messenger had been apprehended in the end by Moneypenny, all in one piece (well, nearly) and ready for questioning (it’s not as if people need working shins to answer questions, right?). They were quick to pick up Bond, lest he get run over by a bicycle or perhaps a stray yoyo. And with the agent measured at little under 10 centimeters tall, it wasn’t out of the question.

Still, Q was doubly impressed with the speed in which the lab medics did their tests- somehow they’d measured his heart rate, taken blood samples… who knows how? And deduced that he would be fine, although this wasn’t the ideal situation for him to be in- thank you, Doctor Obvious.

And Bond, to his credit, insisted on being self-sufficient for the time being. Cheerios and peanuts seemed to fit in his mouth well enough, and even a small grape if he took few bites- he’d be able to last plenty long enough on his own until the lab figured out what to do with him. However Mallory, always the devil’s advocate (or, more accurately, The Queen’s), was having none of it, calling a meeting for any staff familiar with Bond. Only 3 of them showed- funny that now of all times, everyone else was busy doing work.

He sat proudly at the head desk with them standing in front of it, or in Bond’s case on top of it. They’d managed to scrounge up some polyester Polly Pocket suit of some kind, from someone or another’s primary age daughter. Q could tell he was uncomfortable in it, shifting from foot to foot and changing positions just often enough for others not to really notice. It could also be the discussion they were about to have.

“So? Who’ll take him?” Mallory asked the room. The room of course made no reply, but neither did the assorted field agents or technicians or even Chiefs of Staff.

Mallory rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Anyone? Bueller?” Bond opened his mouth to interject, just to be stopped by a giant finger in his face, shushing him with a we’ve been over this, Bond look of admonishment.

The new MI6 head sighs, creasing his brow into about 37 folds before continuing, almost pleading. “Moneypenny?”

“Sorry, sir, I don’t think my sister would take too kindly having a small naked man in our apartment. Especially this particular one.”

“Tanner?”

“I’ve got a pit bull.”

Mallory rubbed his temples. “Alright… Quartermaster?”

Q opened his mouth to respond- but with what? A protest? He had no family- none that knew he was alive, at least. None that cared if they did… He had no pets, and when not at work was pretty much always in sweats, sweaters, or pajamas anyways. No significant other or even roommate. He had no excuse to give, really. And, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really want to. Taking care of Bond, watching over him, especially since normally the agent was miles taller and stronger and tougher than him, was… an intriguing idea, to say the least.

Still, no need to seem too eager. He put on his best hesitant, reluctant face, with a measurable bit of pensive thrown in for show.

“Ah, alright. If nobody else can I suppose I’ll take him in.”

“Oh, thank you, Quartermaster. The enthusiasm is much appreciated.” Bond bowed sarcastically, then looked up at Mallory, almost indignantly. “You can’t be serious, though, Mallory. He hasn’t got anything but ruddy chamomile-”

“Don’t make this harder on yourself, 007.” was the curt reply.

And so it was settled. The meeting adjourned and Q extended his hand, palm-up, on the edge of the table. Bond gave him a look before stepping on, crouching to keep his center of balance low as Q took him away from the table, and headed for home at the end of the day.


	3. The One Where Bond Is Naked

Life with a small Bond in the house was plenty simple, for the first day or so. He refused to be carried in anything but a hand (and most often, it was Q’s), but took up no space (literally) and was generally a good houseguest. He would often ask for baths, which were taken _not_ in Q’s coffee cups, but a small ice cream bowl that Q reminded himself to never use again once this was all over.

When at work Bond often shifted uncomfortably in the ill-fitting doll clothes, but never complained. The lab had, so far, come up with absolutely nothing on how to blow him up back to size. Nothing, at least, that didn’t have a chance of killing him- both decided they’d rather wait to see if more information was to be had.

The second day was more… memorable. It was Q’s day off and seeing as Bond was in no fit shape to work, there was no real need for him to come in, not at least until the lab had worked out something better than “let’s stick a balloon filler in his mouth and see if he swells up like a sponge”. Q stayed in his pajamas as per normal on a Saturday morning, long sleeve shirt and pants made of silky material and striped vertically in different shades of blue.

He spent the morning on Tumblr, a small obsession, and the early morning silence prompted him to believe Bond was still asleep, resting in a half-filled tissue box on the coffee table (which he only ever used for tea anyways). The door was cracked open just enough to hear if trouble arose, but not enough to disrupt the privacy of either man, so while Q couldn’t actually see him, he was just a yell away.

Q’s stomach rumbled at about 11am, and his drowsy mind yearned for tea. Not bothering putting on his glasses he threw the covers off and tiptoed into the main room, which altogether was no more than a 10 foot space between his bedroom and the kitchen, and served as both an office and an after-work crashing area when the bed was much too far away. He owned no television, and so the coffee table and sofa faced a blank white wall, which had started crumbling a little near the ceiling. Such was the luxury of a government salary. At least he loved his job.

Walking past the coffee table, however, he saw no sign of Bond. Just a thrown over tissue and… doll clothes? A crash in the kitchen interrupted his thoughts and he was there in a flash. A coffee cup had fallen from its spot in the cupboard and shattered on the floor, the cupboard mysteriously open. He hadn’t left it that way, and there was no sign of Bond when he scanned the counter, the kitchen floor, picking up his feet as if the floor was burning and making sure he hadn’t stepped on a tiny british spy.

He hadn’t, but his tension rose more for every second he didn’t see the man, and he proceeded to call out hoarsely. “James! Bond! James, are you alright? Jamie-”

“I’m up here, for the Queen’s sake!” A voice from the cupboard. Q rushed over, finding Bond behind a coffee cup, only his head peeking out the top, tufts of blond hair sticking out in all directions despite its short length.

“God, you really are blind without those ginormous specs, aren’t you?” he teased as Q breathed a sigh of relief, one that he hoped wasn’t all too noticeable.

“Pretty eyes, though, I’ll give you that.” It was then that Bond came out from behind the coffee cup, and Q suddenly, vividly remembered the clothes that Bond had been wearing- mostly because of the fact that they were _still by the tissue box_. Yes, James Bond stood there, not 4 inches tall and stark naked, looking like nothing was wrong.

“J-james, you’re-”

“Yes, I’m aware. Just couldn’t take those bloody scratchy clothes anymore. Somebody should infiltrate the Polly Pocket industry and shut it down for making unbelievably cheap clothing. For Queen and Country’s fucking sake, the underwear’s made of _rubber_ …”

Bond continued his small (hah) rant, but Q couldn’t find himself in any state to reply. He just stared as Bond dropped down out of the cupboard, leaning over the counter edge to get a better view of the mess he’d made. Even in miniature, there was nothing left to the imagination, no detail covered. Thick muscles in his legs and thin, toned ones in his arms, strong neck and shoulder blades that really just weren’t fair. His abs and hips were strong where he stood, his arse (not that he would ever admit to looking) was firm, and from the front...

Q forced himself to look away, feeling his ears grow red with heat and hating himself for it. He feigned nonchalance as he turned away, fixing his own eyes to the shattered coffee cup as well.

Bond looked up and raised a brow. “Is that going to be a problem? Just pretend I’m a ken doll if it makes you feel better.”

Q shook his head a little too quickly. “No, that’s-” he straightened and taking a small step back, only to step on a glass shard when he did so. “-ah! Fuck!” All thoughts were momentarily stopped by the sharp pain piercing his sole. He bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling as if someone up there could do something about it. Note to self- bandage first, identity crisis and butt naked Bond could be dealt with later.


	4. The One Where Q Is Unable to Even

One bandage and a sweep-up later, the immediate threat now safely contained in a trash bin, Q now only had one immediate problem to solve. Namely, the naked Bond still in his kitchen, now sipping coffee from a thimble and still not seeming to give a damn about his lack of dress.

Even though he only needed a thimble full, by the way his cheap coffee maker worked Q had to make the entire cup, and was now debating whether to save it in the fridge or pour it down the drain. Bond just sat there, sitting on the edge of the counter and swinging his feet idly. Q realized his indecisiveness on what to do with the cup of coffee was really just a way of stalling, and so he poured it down the drain and turned to face the agent.

“Are you… Just going to stay like that, then?”

Bond looked up from his coffee. “Stay amazingly fit and handsome? Well, one can certainly hope.” then he winked. He actually _winked_. Q felt his ears reddening again.

“No, I meant… Bond, you know _exactly_ what I mean!”

He pouted. “Aw, I liked it better when you called me Jamie.”

Q bit his lip and looked away. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. And why the everloving _Hell_ were his ears such a giveaway? No… no. They weren’t a giveaway for anything. There was nothing to hide, let alone be found out about him and Bond. They were just easily reddened- it was cold in here, after all. His bare feet were freezing on the tile floor of the kitchen. There was probably a window left open in the bathroom.

He gave Bond another judging look, hoping to save his manliness at least a little before retreating back to his room, not even with tea in hand. Bond shrugged it off, and Q could nearly hear the man smirking to himself as he set the thimble down by the sink.

Q tried to get some work done in his bed, not daring to leave his bed for hours, but it was no use. His tumblr dashboard wasn’t even new anymore, and refreshing the page gave him maybe one or two new posts. It was just one of those things he’d have to wait for. His stomach grumbled- had he eaten anything today? He checked the clock- 5pm. Well, bloody great.

He reluctantly opened his door again, spurred only by the aggressive grumbling of his stomach. He heard a bout of swearing from the bathroom, but decided it was more pissed than hurt or in danger, so he left Bond alone. He quickly made himself some toast and jam, cringing when he dropped the jam knife quite noisily in the sink, and rushed back into his room like a vampire from the sunlight.

On his way he saw the tissue box again. The clothes were just where they’d been left before, not even touched. As he reached his bed the image of Bond… _undressed_ came back to his mind against his will. His square shoulders, straight posture. The mess that was his hair unbrushed, making him look like he’d just finished… The way the curve of his back dipped in slightly and then back out to his firm… The definition of his six pack and the v of his hips, leading down to…

“Urghhhhh!” Q groaned childishly into his pillow, trying halfheartedly to smother himself. This really wasn’t fair. He had his small fit for a few minutes before deciding what the hell, 5pm was a fine time to go to bed. He had work early… day after tomorrow, anyways.

He _absolutely did not_ dream about a strong blonde man in a suit...


	5. In Which Bond is 100% Himself Again And Really Literally No More Than That

The days after were awkward, but really only for Q, evidently. The lab would call in every so often with a nice report of how they’d found shit on how to change him back. Bond didn’t come into work anymore because there honestly wasn’t anything for him to do. He had tons of paid time off he’d never taken as well, so there was no reason for him to go.

He’d also made a habit of… Neglecting his clothes. And in a weird way, Q found it easy to get used to. Bond was a good conversationalist, witty and sarcastic to a fault. He concentrated constantly on only looking at the man’s face, and his vision _never_ wandered. No, it didn’t. Shut up it really didn’t; not even to his toned chest, or his fit waist, and _especially_ not his muscular arms and legs. It didn’t happen.

Q would come home from work, dog tired, to a house just as he’d left it. He’d strictly forbidden Bond to attempt cooking, despite the entertainment and adventure it might give him in the long hours when Q was gone, because while nobody he knew had died from 3rd degree coffee machine burns, Q was taking no chances with the mini James Bond. The Quartermaster would slump his satchel by the coffee table, not speaking before some more tea was in his system.

He found it out one day, all the light little boxes of tea bags lined in a row quite meticulously on the counter, his favorite front and center, his vanilla chamomile. He didn’t really know what to think about it, so he never mentioned it. It was a nice gesture, but… he didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. In a way, he was scared to imagine it might be anything but cordiality.

Bond was often seen rifling through magazines, and it was almost comical how he’d turn the pages, almost unfair the way he used his muscles to turn them by sheer force, as small as he was. Almost admirable how he wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible, and in many ways, Q just let him do his own thing. Let him still be a man, if a tiny one.

It was hard, however, when he’d flirt. Q never knew how to respond. A wink here, a touch there. He refused to be carried now by anyone but Q, who he insisted “didn’t treat him like a child”. He would occasionally read his magazines on Q’s bed as the younger worked or scrolled down his dashboard, the two staying to their own activities in admirable, comfortable silence. Like close friends. Like roommates. Like… like something.

Two weeks in, and the lab had all but given up. There were other things to research, other power cores to dissect and aliens that Q wasn’t supposed to know about but he did anyways. Mallory and Moneypenny had their jobs to do, and each day that went on, the less they were doing anything about it. Bond was surprisingly calm about it all, despite having the possibility of being small forever. He was calm about everything. Calm, nonchalant, and much too cool for a literally shrunken, naked man. Then again, that calmness was such that only Bond could really be able to achieve it.

Tonight, Bond was reading in his bed again. Q had work in the morning, so he shut down his laptop and went to sleep. He left the light on, not really caring that it be off as he was an easy sleeper. He thought he’d heard Bond mumble a good night, but he couldn’t be certain.

/

He woke a few hours later to… snoring? It was… a gentle snoring, more like heavy breathing, not loud, but close. A small, warm draft on the back of his neck should have made him shiver, but instead was strangely comforting. Still… he did live alone, right? Hadn’t had a girlfriend since… well, hadn’t had a _boyfriend_ either, not since college. But this was definitely a man, and definitely not normal.

He tried moving, sleepy mind still unable to make the connection. He was stopped by a large, strong arm around his waist, which pulled him in close to a very firm chest. A firm body, by the feel of it. The edge of a nose tickled the hairs on Q’s neck, and the bare arm around him was defined enough that you could see the veins, the scars…

Wait, he… He recognized those scars. He’d seen them hundreds of times, on hundreds of missions… knew them from every time he searched through a crowd during a chase…

He was awake quicker than he’d ever woken up, whipping around like a flash and nearly falling off the bed. As an afterthought he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake Bond up, but it was already too late. Of course the agent was a light sleeper. He was probably trained for that sort of thing, and because of it, he was now facing intensely blue eyes, alert and looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Bond was fully sized, now- somehow, whatever had been done to him had been reversed, worn off. Q could better see the details of his facial features, the individual hairs that stuck up and the muscles in his upper arm when he shifted to put the side of his head on his hand. He was wearing no shirt, his arms and upper chest out of the covers, and… oh. Oh, no, he couldn’t still be… His clothes were… Well, they weren’t here, is what.

Q scrambled backwards, blind, struggling and tangling himself in the blankets in his desperate attempt to flee. Bond took him by the wrist, then, and no. No. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t… He couldn’t be… This was _James Bond. Naked. In HIS bed._ Q’s ears were red and his face was hot and no, he had to leave, before this got awkward. Before he did something stupid. Before-

And then Bond pulled Q back to the bed, gaze unwavering. Always unwavering. Always so cool, so calm. Ever closer, and then he was pulled in, eyes closing tightly as he gave up, gave in and they were connected, just like that, just that easy. Q was shaking, unprepared, but as the moments passed his hand fell into the scritch on the back of Bond’s neck, pulling and hanging on for dear life because this was _James Bond_ , and _damn_ if it wasn’t extraordinary.

When the moment ended, it was Bond who drew back, smirking knowingly, like he’d understood this from the start, like it was just part of the plan all along, and nothing was anything but the way it should have been. Q was blushing like an idiot, pointedly ignoring the stirring feelings in his chest and groin, breathing heavily like a teenage virgin. He blinked several times, opening his mouth and closing it, vocabulary dropping from his head like flies from a zapper, trying to object, trying to ask for more, trying to know which was which and what he wanted.

But his thoughts were broken again by the second kiss, this one slower and calmer, and Q felt it. Felt every breath shared, every millimeter explored by the other man’s tongue, every small intake of breath or gasp or hitch or start (most of which, to his embarrassment, did _not_ come from the blonde man). He felt Bond’s hand as it snuck up his side, and was placed firmly on the small of his back, rubbing gentle circles while his other hand stroked Q’s cheek. Such small things and yet everything at once was almost too much.

But that moment ended, too, and this time Q was silent as he pulled back. Hundreds of questions still plagued his mind but they were subdued, pushed back by the importance, the essential sight in front of him. He watched, almost remotely, as Bond took his wrist again, placing his hand on Bond’s chest lightly, giving him wordless permission. Q half sputtered, then, still slightly panicking, completely caught off guard. His voice was shaky and his lips slightly swollen and wet when he spoke.

“Y-you… James, is this…”

Calm. Collected. “It’s whatever you’d like it to be.”

He bit his lip, unable to really say anything intelligent at the moment, settling for just “You aren’t small anymore.”

A silent chuckle. “Hah, well, yes. It seems I’m back to normal. 100% me, and, well, quite literally nothing more than that.”

Q blushed, remembering Bond’s state of undress yet again. “You’re… not going to get dressed, then?” There was more than one question there in his tone, though he wasn’t quite sure what he meant to ask with the other.

“Only if you’d like me to.”

And there were, of course, plenty of ways to answer that question. He could have said yes, could have walked away. He could have asked; why? how had he known? how had he known even before Q himself did? He could have pushed back if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He didn’t say a word, and he didn’t have to.

Q leaned in again and kissed Bond firmly, his Jamie, his Bond, and that was all the answer he needed to give.


End file.
